


Sharpe's Power

by InkSiren



Series: Sharpe's Fanfic [15]
Category: Sharpe (TV), Sharpe - All Media Types, Sharpe Series - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, F/M, Gen, Good Dad Richard Sharpe, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Richard Sharpe, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28185900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSiren/pseuds/InkSiren
Summary: Three children and about forty years more than Richard ever expected he'd have, Sharpe discovers that even a retired soldier can still fight hard when he needs to.AKA Richard is a wonderful father and his kids have him Stressed.
Series: Sharpe's Fanfic [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034673
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Sharpe's Power

**Author's Note:**

> I have watched all the show/movies and have poked carefully around in future canon but I only just finished Fortress tonight so please, bookverse savvy people, be gentle with me I tried real hard.

Patrick-Henri likes to run off, and Richard swears it’ll literally be the death of him.

Lucille tells him not to worry, that the boy does actually listen to him and is at the age (Eleven! When did Richard become father to an eleven-year-old?) where it is natural for him to wander off a little, but all Richard can think about is that if a wolf or a bear or a full grown boar were to come across his son, it doesn’t matter that Patrick is tall for his age or can (sometimes) outrun Sharpe himself.

The bear-skin serving as a rug in front of their fireplace and the wolf fur on both of his children’s beds don’t make him feel better either.

“I didn’t kill every bloody wolf in Normandy Lucille,” Richard argues, and she just gives him that soft smile that infuriates him and touches his chest fondly as she adds a kiss.

“You’re too nervous, Richard. They are children, not glass dolls.”

“I wouldn't be worried about wolves if they were made of glass now would I,” he mutters, and she laughs.

“You are a good father, and it is still daylight outside. Patrick-Henri is a smart boy and he will not go too far.” She kisses his chest lightly and turns back to the cooking. “Stop worrying, you’ll take yourself from us too soon with the stress on your heart.”

“S’ not I that’s putting strain on my heart,” Richard mutters, crossing his arms and looking petulantly out of the window.

Lucille laughs again, and Richard snaps his head over to look at her, meeting her playful gaze with a huff of frustration.

“I don’t see what’s funny about this Lucille.”

“Your worry, my love, is not what I find funny,” she assures him gently, hands once again working diligently to shuck peas from their shells.

“Oh, then what is?”

“It is the fact that your son has your blood in his veins and you expect him to sit at home quietly and learn his history.”

Still it is near dinner and so Richard is outside, trying to track down his son. His rifle is in his hands, a comfort more than an actual plan, and he pretends not to have noticed Lucille pretending not to notice he’s taken it.

It comes off the mantle far more often than he’d ever dreamed it would once he was done being a soldier. He is supposed to be a father and a farmer now, but he’s decided raising children is a war in and of itself.

Especially children that come from his bloodline. He can only imagine how his daughter will behave once she learns she can strike out like her brother and then he really thinks he’s going to an early grave.

“Patrick!” he calls, throwing a leg over the fence and trodding off towards the wood and the pool where Patrick likes to search for insects and salamanders. “Patrick-Henri Lassan, you’re meant to be home already, it’s getting dark!”

He ventures farther, and father, his anxiety ramping up with adrenaline as the long shadows of dusk travel with him. He’s twitching at near every sound, hand near the trigger but he doesn’t dare rest on it, just in case what comes flitting out of the brush is his actual quarry.

“Patrick!” he calls again, marching through long weeds. “If you can hear me you’d best answer or I’ll have you a beating you’ll naut forget.”

It doesn’t matter that Richard has never seriously hit his son and doesn’t intend to start. The threat makes him feel better than saying nothing.

“I’m here, I’m here,” comes a petulant voice, and a head of wild hair, prickling with blackberry thorns and dirty with mud comes scrambling out of the undergrowth, freckled face scrunched. “It’s not late yet, what’re you yelling for?”

“Not late?” Richard asks, staring down at his son with his hands still gripping his rifle. “Sun’s nearly down.”

“I can still see just fine, and it’s not beneath the horizon yet,” Patrick argues, pointing. “Mum said sun-down I needed to be home.”

“Mum--” Richard tosses his head, cuffing Patrick half-heartedly. “Go on, get back to the farm, wash up before your _Mum_ comes to her senses.”

They’re heading back, and Richard makes the mistake of starting to relax. With Patrick in sight and the farm only a little ways off, he lets his guard down, and that’s when the wolves show up.

It’s a small pack, yellow eyes gleaming on the edge of the falling darkness, but Richard reacts entirely without thought and grabs Patrick, pulling him almost harshly back to place himself between his son and the wild animals. Patrick, for once, doesn’t resist or even protest. He’s white faced and silent at Richard’s back as he raises the rifle, tense as a drawn bow.

He will not shoot unless they come closer, because the way these things run he’ll get the chance only to shoot one.

“When I tell you run,” he says, voice low and steady. “You _run_.”

He feels Patrick-Henri grip the back of his shirt tightly.

The wolves stare him down, and the one at the front of the pack raises his head, great, thick fur tossed by an evening wind turning colder. They hold that look for a long, long stretch, and Richard gets the feeling the wolf can tell it is not the only hunter.

At last, the pack seems to decide men aren’t worth the work and they turn, plodding back across the ridge.

Richard doesn’t dare relax, doesn’t dare move until they’re gone, and the moment they are he spins around, grabs Patrick’s arm, and they run back to the farm.

“What did I say?” he’s demanding, finally slowing and turning to Patrick once they’re safely inside the fence. “What did I _bloody_ say?!”

“I’m sorry Papa,” Patrick says, and his voice is so soft and broken it arrests Richard’s anger immediately. He can see now his son is crying, and Richard cannot help but drop to one knee and reach for him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling him into a hug that Patrick rushes into. “I’m sorry I was frightened, I weren’t really yelling at you,” he admits. “Or your Mum, she’s a smart lady she just…” he sighs heavily and shakes his head, pulling away and wiping at Patrick’s tears. “You’re alright, aye? You were very brave.”

Patrick sniffs and nods, and Richard presses a trembling kiss to his forehead. “Good lad. Go on in and see your mother, I’ll be along in a moment.”

He goes, and Richard watches him, and he doesn’t fully collapse until Patrick is out of sight. It’s like strings have been cut and the adrenaline crash hits him so hard he nearly blacks out. He catches himself on the fence and slowly lowers himself to the ground, vaguely aware of the flutter and squawk of a surprised chicken.

He’s hyperventilating then, and it’s all he can do to draw his knees up and rest his arms on them and not pass out.

By the time the attack is over, Richard is bone-weary and his heart is still pounding. Its ferocity almost startles him, and as he tips his head back against the wooden post and finally lets himself uncurl, he’s aware of the way it shudders his ribcage and he thinks it incredible it can still beat so. He’d never imagined the old battle rage and battle surge would ever find him again, or if it did, he’d been convinced it would be too much for his body to handle. From the way his heart is still able to race like a war stallion he can see he was very wrong.

Lucille comes out then in a panic suddenly, her pretty face stricken and turning white. “Richard--”

She’s kneeling in the dirt next to him in moments and he grips her arm, trying to assure her.

“I’m alright, we weren’t hurt just scared me half to death. How’s he doing?”

“He’s shaken, but I think you not coming inside is scaring him more,” she admits, cupping his cheek with a worried expression. “Richard, can you ever forgive me?”

“How were you to know?” he asks. “Wolves usually don’t come this far, and certainly not before dark. Truth of it is they probably weren’t man-eaters at all. Most predators find us too much trouble, or they’re afraid of us more than we are them. Don’t blame yourself Lucille, I don’t. Not really. I just…”

He shakes his head, and she settles back on her heels, dropping a worried hand to his chest.

“What is it? _Dieu_ , your heart is still pounding so...”

“I couldn’t stand it. If--” he has to stop, unable to even voice the horror. “It would kill me, Lucille. I mean that. If we lost either one I’d not see next winter.”

“I know,” she whispers, pulling him in and kissing his temple, his jaw, tangling her fingers in his hair as she presses her head against his. “I couldn’t bear to lose any of you,” she murmurs, and he can see as she pulls back that she’s weeping. He frames her face with both his hands, pulling her close again.

“You won’t,” he says, and he can feel his heart still beating with the power needed to seal the promise. “I swear it.”

**Author's Note:**

> I went off the book wiki for the names in this one, including the surname Patrick-Henri ends up with.


End file.
